


ring

by probee



Category: NCIS
Genre: A little angst, Episode: s03e02 Kill Ari Part 2, Episode: s07e24 Rule Fifty-One, Episode: s08e01 Spider and the Fly, Episode: s08e05 Dead Air, Episode: s11e02 Past Present and Future, Episode: s13e24 Family First, Episode: s16e13 She, F/M, a little fluff, mostly in between
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-10-29 22:47:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17816975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/probee/pseuds/probee
Summary: They may be many things, but separable is not one of them, despite all of her best efforts.





	1. i. twenty-one

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been sitting near-completed on my hard drive for two years, but for some reason I never felt ready to post it. Apparently, though, 2019 is the time, come hell or high water. I figured having 5.5 chapters out of 6 done was good enough for now, and maybe that'll hold me accountable to actually finish it.
> 
> Also, keep in mind this was written two years ago, before, um, _recent developments_ took place on the show.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is twenty-one the first time she is truly betrayed.

i. twenty-one

She is twenty-one the first time she is truly betrayed.

Her life is a whirlwind these days — she can hardly remember a time when it hasn’t been anymore, but this latest chapter seems to take her around the world in eighty days more often than not, sometimes several times over. Far from the peaceful existence she once enjoyed out in the country, she’s become a woman of the world, as the American magazines would have once put it. 

Truth be told, she actually enjoys it, a little. Of course, she will always go to where she is assigned, as a loyal soldier should, but these latest missions have been thrilling, the nature of her newfound career notwithstanding. She always did want to travel the globe, so she muses that this is at least one way of doing it, unconventional as it is. Even if all she gets to see is mainly viewed through the blurry lens of a fogged-out window on a highway, or back alleys where no one seeks to venture. Still, it beats doing foot patrol duty in Hebron.

Yet, it isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. On the rare occasions she is allowed to make contact when she is away, it’s as though she’s playing a game of tag with her life back home. With her brother, this is nothing new; after all, she followed him into this life, in a manner of speaking, and he’s the one who warned her this wasn’t a social club. “It’s a lonely world, little sister. Make sure you know where you stand.” He’s been different lately— distant— but she supposes that’s what happens when you’re constantly watching your back. She wonders if he’ll ever be the same once his active duty is over. Or if she will be, for that matter.

She was naive when she first began this nearly a year and a half ago, she realizes. Maybe she snuck in too many of those old movies her mother used to catch on TV during chores when she was a child, but part of her hoped there’d be more secret messages and covert meetings and intrigue. 

Instead, much of her work involves observing targets like lions stalk their prey, for days or weeks on end, until their coast is clear. She thought that she’d at least get to check in with her family a little more on her downtime, but even modern conveniences like mobile phones don’t coordinate with her schedule much. Or the schedule of a busy teenager like her sister. 

“Ziva, when are you coming home?” Tali whines with equal parts comedy and sincerity in their conversation a few days prior. “You would not believe this club we went to last week with Noam. It just opened and it was basically a free-for-all. They had this amazing DJ and we danced until the sun came up. Pretty sure it was the best night of my life.”

“And I’m sure Abba was thrilled to learn his underage daughter was partying all night long with boys.”

“Who cares, what Abba doesn’t know won’t hurt me. He needs to lighten up. I’m almost seventeen. It’s about time someone had fun in this family. God knows you all don’t.”

She chuckles at the perfectly adolescent logic coming through over the staticky long-distance line, envying the girl’s spirit. It’s hard to believe she was that young herself not very long ago. Was she ever that carefree, she wonders? It seems like as vibrant and reckless as her sister is, she’s been as vigilant and calculated. Maybe that’s the gift of being the baby of the family, she supposes. You’re allowed an escape from expectations. But she refuses to give into this train of thought— it’s not fair to any of them. 

The discussion drifts from boys and bars to family gossip (apparently aunt Nettie does not approve of their brother’s not-so-secret girlfriend) to their next holiday. Cairo was a peak experience a few months ago, but Tali claims her busy schedule of studying and lessons (she won’t give up performing until their father physically drags her to basic training, she often jokes) and, apparently, boy-hunting, means she is well overdue for another getaway. Ziva can tell that her sister is trying to protect her, understanding that she’s seen things lately from which she needs to recover, just by the hesitancy in her voice over the phone. So they discuss their potential destinations and decide a trip to a beach is overdue; they mull even going abroad to somewhere like Mykonos for a week, just for the hell of it, because they are young and beautiful and this is the time to throw caution to the wind, to honor those who no longer could.

It is the perfect fantasy.

Days later, the young woman with more burdens than she cares to admit has just completed her latest joint operation, when she returns to command central for a debriefing before catching a transport back home. It is a cursory affair, with poor lighting and even worse coffee, but she finds she enjoys the camaraderie of the other agents, a companionship that’s been sorely lacking in her unit of late. It’s the nature of their work, she tells herself, but it’s hard to ignore the ease with which she gets along with some of her counterparts in foreign intelligence. Sometimes, she admits that she wouldn’t mind staying on with them a little longer. 

They share idle chitchat as their mission comes to a close, when one of the analysts draws her attention.

“Oh, Officer David? There have been a few calls for you this morning from Tel Aviv. One was from the Director. They said it was urgent.”

She finds it hard not to roll her eyes (who’s the teenager now?) and nods her thanks to the woman, as she walks over to the phone to get in touch with her father. She was hoping for a break until the next op, long enough for that island vacation, but duty must prevail, as always. She wonders if she’ll at least be able to get some sleep before this one.

She reaches the switchboard at her father’s office, noting an odd sterility in the voice of the dispatcher, with whom she is normally cordial, but she is too distracted by the merry chatter of her colleagues to really give it a second thought. At last, she is finally patched through, but what comes next is anything but routine.

“Ziva, it’s your sister…”

Suddenly, she feels the blood rushing through her eardrums while the entire room disappears around her. At some point, she knows she’s dropped the phone, as her limbs have gone completely numb, but someone — she thinks perhaps the American — must have placed it back into her hand, because she has no recollection of how she was able to finish the conversation. Not that one could really call it that, beyond the meagre _yes_ es and _I see_ s and _understood_ s that somehow automatically escape her mouth. She doesn’t even know when she started crying, but as she finishes the call, she realizes her face is completely moistened, though she cannot remember what she should do about it. For the first time in her adult life, she is not in control.

(Later, she will ponder if there are families all over the world going through this very thing at her hands when her missions are over. She will hate herself for it. And sometimes, hate _him_ for it, too.)

Somehow, she makes her way to a nondescript airfield and even more miraculously, onto the right flight home. There are quiet condolences and muttered thank-yous, but no actions fully register on any level of consciousness. It is not until she is sitting by herself on the plane, in her reverie, that she finally grasps what she is about to return home to, and the idea nearly makes her sick, until it actually does.

Because all this time, she’d made a deal, she just hadn’t realized it. Her father was fair game, this everyone knew. (On her darker days, she might even believe he deserves whatever will come to him eventually.) She and her brother— on some level, they knew they had an expiration date. It came with their training, just like it did so many before them. It was a fact of life in their homeland, they would always say, and this is why they continued the fight. So that one day, no one would have to.

But her sister— her sister exists ( _existed_ ) on a different plane. She was who they did this for, so that she could chase boys and sing opera in New York City and phone at 2am because she remembered a funny story, and remind them that they were alive in their own right, not just to answer to someone else’s beck and call. The devil can take us all he wants, but she— _she_ is to be left alone. That is their unspoken bond.

Today, that bond is broken. And she is on the warpath. 

Once she is crossed, she does not forgive.

Less than a year later, it is she who instead places that fateful call home, another piece of her soul forever taken. 

No innocence is lost on this day, except for perhaps the remains of what used to be her family, but her resolve is no less shaken. Because she used to be the middle child of an older brother and a baby sister, and now she is neither of those things, only the lone survivor of a battle she becomes increasingly doubtful should have ever been won. 

This time, she does a slightly more convincing job of masking her shattered heart ( _my brother my brother my brother_ she screams on the inside), but in turn her father’s frustrating stoicism sends her further adrift. _Had to be done_ , she hears him say at some point, though she can tell when he’s trying to convince himself as much as her, yet like with Tali, she feels like she’s an outsider looking in. She has been trained (programmed) for many things in this career, but somehow she must have missed the chapter on how to react when you lose a sibling — when your sibling is lost at your very own hands. 

It dawns on her that no longer will she hear the soothing caution of one sibling or the unadulterated joy of the other, and for the first time in her life, she understands that she is truly alone in this world.

But, on another continent far away from what is left, she also begins to feel something strange.

Freedom.


	2. ii. Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She has to remind herself of this. She lost everything. But after— after _what_ , she still doesn’t want to revisit — _after_ , she put every piece back together herself. For the first time in her life, she has a choice.
> 
> And this is it.
> 
> She’s chosen her home.
> 
> She’s chosen her career.
> 
> She’s chosen her country.
> 
> And with each choice, the broken parts inside begin to heal.

She should have known.

Since she was a girl, she has always told herself, “Do not get your hopes up.”

Do not hope that your father will turn up at your recital, for once. 

(He is a busy man.)

Do not hope that your parents will work things out this time. 

(They have been broken for longer than you will ever realize.)

Do not hope that your brother and sister will come home.

(They cannot.)

This is the mantra by which Ziva David has lived her entire adult life. She hasn’t had a choice. It’s been her saving grace more times than she can count, though she doesn’t allow herself the luxury of considering what she must give up in the process.

This time, however, it feels different.

She has shed the skin of her former life, she believes. 

(After what happened last year, she wants nothing more than to be the phoenix rising from the ashes. Sometimes, though, she’s scared she’ll never escape from the depths of that fire.)

She has forged a new path, here; its foundation has grown brick by brick since the first day she set foot in this place five years ago. Since the day she learned her childhood hero was all too fallible. Since the day she learned who would actually have her back. 

Before, she used to tell herself that this sojourn was temporary. That one day she’d return home. (Had to return home.)

Until that day came and went, and she realized where her home was. And came so devastatingly close to losing it altogether.

She _did_ lose it. 

She has to remind herself of this. She lost everything. But after— after _what_ , she still doesn’t want to revisit — _after_ , she put every piece back together herself. For the first time in her life, she has a choice.

And this is it.

She’s chosen her home.

She’s chosen her career.

She’s chosen her country.

And with each choice, the broken parts inside begin to heal. 

She lets herself rejoice in these decisions. True, she must relinquish in return— again, she refuses to give in to the magnitude of the loss, because it’s too soon and too raw and too much of _before_ — but she is proud of who she is becoming. Of the people who have welcomed her into their arms, and of how she’s tried to honor them by becoming the person that this new identity demands she should be.

(She doesn’t understand at the moment that she can be both— can be all parts in one whole.)

For the former soldier who celebrated accomplishments few and far between, she is determined to commemorate this one. She will surround herself with her chosen family, and as she swears an oath, she will feel one step closer to being worthy of them, and of this life.

But as usual, one cannot count on life to go as planned.

 _He_ texts her first.

 _Ziva, I’m so sorry. Can’t make the ceremony tomorrow. Just got assigned a special op by Vance. Leave tonight at 2300. Really wanted to be there to speak now or forever hold my peace_.

She blinks hard.

It is the nature of their work. They have all missed dates and birthdays and funerals on the job. They have a responsibility. 

Still, she cannot quell the disappointment she feels every time she re-reads the message. _Stop it_ , she chides herself. _You would have done the same_. She sighs, but just as she’s had so much practice at in the past, she brushes it off (she wishes) and sets her sights on the big day. Always keep moving, she was once told, and she’s taken that to heart more times than she can count.

It is the second blow that shocks her senses.

She is at the hall, surrounded by her fellow new citizens and their families, and despite still feeling a pang that he is not there (why it matters, she doesn’t know — he’s a just coworker, she lies to herself), she is swept up in the emotion of the day. Every person in this room is embarking upon a new possibility of tomorrow, and she’s overcome by the meaning behind the words she will utter in just a few minutes, while her friends stand by her side. (Have always stood by her side.)

Except there is another figure missing when it’s time to take their seats, and part of her worries that something is wrong. 

_Relax_ , she tells herself. _There is a reason_. There is always a reason.

Then, on cue, her phone rings.

“Ziver.”

“Gibbs! Is everything all right? Abby was just wondering where you were. She says there is parking a few streets north of here if you are stuck—“

“Ziver, listen, something just came up. I won’t be there in time. Sorry.”

“Of course. I understand.” 

For a man of few words, he sure packs a punch with the ones he voices. She swallows the regret escaping from the back of her throat; it is of no use to dwell on this. These things happen, she knows. _This is not about you_.

The crowd rises to their feet, and they listen to the opening remarks of the judge who is officiating their ceremony. She surrenders to the moment; she worked for this, has earned this, and while she may not believe in happy endings, this is one of those instances in which she comes as close as she thinks she can get. 

(Though part of her is still scanning the crowd, waiting for him to show up. Like she always has, in every iteration of _him_.)

She has her family here, the one that means everything to her, and that should be enough. Even when it feels like there is a gaping hole (two gaping holes) in their unit.

She isn’t the only one curious about the notable absence, but they know this drill, and mingle over coffee and sweets. She is in awe that they’ve all gathered here, with their own stories to tell and reasons for action. _You made it_ , she reminds herself. This is what is important.

So she makes small talk with the newest citizens, marveling at what it means to finally, officially be part of this country. These people from all walks of life, gathered together for the quintessential American Dream of their own making. That freedom exhilarates her, as she learns about their pasts and their plans for their future, and she is reminded of why she is here. Because she would protect this hope at all costs. This hope is the very thread of life, her experiences have taught her.

She says her goodbyes to her new comrades (maybe that’s a word she should scrub from her vocabulary now that she is American) and follows her friends— her wonderful, caring friends— to their favorite watering hole to celebrate. When she walks in, she catches a glimpse of their usual corner covered in streamers and bunting (clearly Abby’s handiwork), and the star-spangled banner is draped over their table; she can’t help the tears welling in her eyes. Maybe her new identity is making her soft, but she is perfectly fine in embracing the sentimentality. She has people, and she has a home, and the night carries on like so many others have and will.

Things return to normal. She spends a few weeks in Miami following a lead, and strikes up a casual rapport with the handsome CIA officer assigned to the file. Her boss and her partner both make it back to the land of the living, and they all soon forget about the day. Stuff happens. Work comes up and cases are solved and they fall into their usual patterns. 

Because it would be childish, wouldn’t it, to expect everyone to drop important matters for you? And she has always prided herself on not being childish. Even, perhaps, when she was a child. Regret is a waste of time, she’s been taught. Move onto the next task at hand.

She doesn’t realize, though, that she guards her heart a little bit more in the following weeks. That she stops expecting the words of encouragement from her mentor, in between the barking of orders. That she doesn’t always return the knowing grins of her coworker quite as wide, that she lets some of the calls go to voicemail, that she buries herself in her work that much more. (That she starts looking elsewhere precisely to avoid being hurt, because it will always end in hurt, won’t it?)

She acts like a grown up.

She appreciates this American dream of hers to its fullest.

It is in the midst of this appreciation, then, when he catches her off-guard. 

_Meet me outside_.

She squints at the message, as though it were a secret code she needed to uncover, and considers ignoring it. (Again.) She’s not in the mood, she pretends.

 _Seriously, right now_.

She glances around the squad room. Other than the business-as-usual clacking of keys and scanning of machines, it is a dull afternoon. Curiosity gets the best of her and she heads downstairs, expecting _him_ to either let her in on his next practical joke, or be the very butt of one.

She is decidedly not expecting what she actually finds.

Leaning against a vintage convertible (definitely a rental), he looks as boyish as ever, shades on and mile-wide grin plastered on his face. He’s cocky as hell, which means he’s up to something. (Which means she’s a little turned on, in spite of herself. Which usually means trouble.)

“So what is this, Tony? Are you playing nookie?”

“Oh, _would_ that I _could_ , Miss David, but I have a damage deposit I need to get back ASAP because I maxed out my card on this baby. But _yes_ , we are going to play _hooky_ this evening, if you’ll just step right this way—“

“Right now? You think I am getting into that with you right now? First of all, what gives you the idea I _want_ to do that, and secondly, we do have work to do.”

“Come on, you know you want to hop into this baby and feel the wind in your hair, the sunset kissing your cheeks, the V8 revving under the hood. Besides, we’ve worked ten days straight and all that’s left to do is some pencil pushing. McGeek can handle it for one day.”

Her face is inscrutable.

“… And I already told Boss we were leaving. Get in.”

She furrows her brows.

“ _Please_.”

With one last _harumph_ , she jumps into the classic Mustang, while throwing out a comment about the impracticality of a topless car in the middle of fall. (She also never denies that she very much wants to be in this car, with him.) Confused, but curious, she stares him down in the way she knows makes him weak in the knees were he standing, but he cooly focuses on shifting gears and navigating them through their voyage.

“If you are going to abduct me, you may as well tell me where we are going.”

“ _We_ are going to get you thoroughly Americanized today.”

“I _am_ an American, you cannot hold that against me anymore.”

“Yes, but you have not had your official ‘Welcome to America’ by Anthony DiNozzo yet, and _that_ , Ziva, is what we are embarking upon this enchanted October evening.”

She is unconvinced.

“Look, I meant it then when I said I was sorry I missed your naturalization ceremony. So tonight, I am making it up to you.”

She is floored. “Tony, honestly, I completely understood. It is part of the job. You do not have to do anything—“

“I know. But I want to. Let me do this, ‘k?”

“Okay.”

Not for the first time, she is moved at his thoughtfulness. She immediately feels chastened for ever feeling dismay over his absence in the first place, but his gesture touches her so profoundly that she once again is thankful for her second chance. She doesn’t know if she deserves it, but she’s going to take this for all its worth.

“Just where are we going?”

“Why, I’m glad you asked! We are going to take part in the holiest of national rituals, as American as apple pie, white picket fences and mud wrestling. Tonight, Ziva, we are going to a baseball game.”

“A _baseball game_?”

“A. Baseball. Game.”

She eyes him skeptically. 

“Since you are already familiar with our national pastime, it’s about time you participated in this sacred event. And by that, I mean the full-on DiNozzo Experience.”

Grins all around. 

“We could walk there faster than the time it will take to find parking, you know.”

“Yeah, but we wouldn’t look as hot.”

When he’s right, he’s right.

They drive around the block a few times she suspects only to get his money’s worth out of this rental, while he blasts some classic rock on the radio and commits to the obnoxiousness of this persona. She feigns embarrassment, but quickly she gives in to the mood. They are young (ish) and free (ish) and the world is theirs for the taking. Skipping out on work for a day of frivolity is entirely within their purview. 

The guitar solo eventually ends, they fight ridiculous traffic and exorbitant parking fees and follow the queue up to the stadium. (Yes they really would have been better off walking from work, but they wouldn’t have had that awesome duet at the top of their lungs if they hadn’t been in the car to hear it, so, a wash.) He is prepared, she notices — actual box office tickets at the ready in his coat pocket, not even printed from an email, so some thought went into this — and she wonders how long he’s planned this out. She doesn’t dare ask, but it makes her feel special in a way that feels foreign all over again.

Once inside the stadium, amongst the revelers, her host guides them to the concession stand. The throngs of fans in their natural habitat has increased the temperature of the autumn air about fifty degrees inside the concourse, and the lines (upon lines upon lines) are seemingly interminable. Tony insists this is part of the package, because apparently misery loves company, and beer.

“First stop: Accoutrements. You gotta get some gear.”

Eyebrows raise.

She follows him into the tiny store near the entrance, where every square inch of the booth is branded with cartoon character mascots. Her partner begins to pull items off the shelves in a flurry of excitement, to which she can barely keep up.

“Tony, what are you doing?!”

“You gotta get one of everything!”

“I am not wearing that.”

“ _Of course_ you are wearing it! Everyone wears it.”

They bicker. Customers stare. They are oblivious.

(This feels good.)

“Just pretend we’re undercover. It’s part of the act.”

“And just who are we pretending to be?”

“ _Americans_ , obviously.”

He smirks. She rolls her eyes.

They settle for a pair of baseball hats, and he grabs an oversized foam finger from the pile of memorabilia, like a kid in a candy store. Part of the experience, indeed. 

They escape, with not insignificant damage done to Tony’s credit card, and head towards the next stop on their tour.

“This is essential: Refreshments. We are going all-out here. We’re talking hot dogs, we’re talking french fries, we’re talking nachos with cheese from a pump—“

“We’re talking heart attack if you keep this up. That sounds horrific.”

“You take that back Agent David!”

“ _Never_.”

They are playful. They are sharp. They are happy.

He holds the cardboard box of MSG while she grabs the tray of beers (“Just as God intended it,”) and they elbow their way through the masses of limbs and polyester. The operatives circle the concourse until they find their gate, and as they enter the doorway, it’s as though the curtain has been lifted above their eyes. From the dark tunnel into the blaring stadium lights, the thrum of the crowd resonates right into her eardrums, quite unlike anything she’s ever seen before.

The pair climb down the stairs and over other spectators in search of their seats, both displaying catlike agility in the task as they try most importantly not to lose any of their bounty. Ziva momentarily wonders if it would be appropriate to draw her weapon in the event that they start a civil war over spilled cheese product, until she remembers that they left their guns at the office, so she best just avoid the situation altogether. They find their places and squeeze themselves into submission, like everyone else around them. It is uncharacteristically warm and deafeningly loud, but neither of them minds, because he is close enough to smell her shampoo, and she is close enough to smell his cologne, and they are secretly thrilled at their close quarters.

And so it goes. They don their caps and break bread (buns) over the crack of the bats and the roar of the crowds, and join in every chant and jeer every bad call. Mostly they laugh, and talk, and laugh some more, and both blame the beer for their lightheadedness when the truth is far more bittersweet. 

They are alive.

The game ends in a loss for the home team and disappointed fans go marching one by one into the night, but one would never guess this from the mood of the star-crossed agents lingering behind. As they find themselves back at their chariot, Tony insists on making one last stop for an ice cream nightcap, while his partner insists he is trying to fatten her up so that she doesn’t beat him to the van every single time it’s wheel’s-up.

But she doesn’t say no.

So this is how they find themselves sitting on the hood of the rental car on this enchanted October evening indeed, holding onto their magic for just awhile longer, knowing that their pumpkin will soon come calling. At some point, her phone buzzes and she immediately ignores the call— and the subsequent four text messages— because the _him_ sending them pales in comparison to the _him_ before her eyes. Tomorrow, they will all return to their real lives, so for tonight, she is embracing her dreamland.

While she’s busy ignoring things, though, she also misses that he _doesn’t_ miss her phone etiquette. But he dares not bring attention to that. Because he made a promise that if she ever came home, he would never get in her way again. The last time he did that, he nearly lost her, and the idea of letting history repeat itself terrifies him to his core.

“I would like to propose a toast.”

Her spoon halts mid-bite.

“To Ziva David, now an American living not in Paris, but right here in Washington D.C. May your knives be locked and your loins be girded, because this ninja is officially one of us.”

Whatever he is referencing is yet another foreign language to her, but his eyes are full of absolute sincerity, and once again she is overwhelmed at her friend’s thoughtfulness. The heat rises in her cheeks, and she suddenly feels shy, as though a spotlight were being directed at her in a way wholly unfamiliar.

“Thank you. For everything.”

He returns her shy smile, and they finish their dessert in companionable silence. And for perhaps the first time in longer than they care to admit, they become reacquainted with something they hadn’t realized they’d lost.

Hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of two chapters I couldn't finish, which is why this story sat on my computer for so long. And I don't know how it turned into _this_.


	3. iii. Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They may be many things, but separable is not one of them, despite all of her best efforts. Even when they are oceans apart, they are wholly intertwined, and she realizes she was kidding herself if she ever believed that physical distance would change that.

She stares at the glowing screen, absolutely mesmerized and unable to make any cell in her body act.

It’s the same way she’s stared at it for the last twenty-hour hours since her life turned upside down, wishing she could somehow telekinetically make it do her bidding, even though she doesn’t even know what that would entail just yet.

If she’s honest, it’s the same way she’s stared at it for the last three weeks, since the second he turned around and she tried to never look back, even if they both understood deep down that it was an impossible feat. They may be many things, but separable is not one of them, despite all of her best efforts. Even when they are oceans apart, they are wholly intertwined, and she realizes she was kidding herself if she ever believed that physical distance would change that. A fact of which Fate itself has decided she needs reminding, evidently. 

She knows she should do something. _Needs_ to do something. Make decisions. Buy groceries. Get some fresh air.

 _Pick up the damn phone_.

Instead, she sits entranced in the armchair on which she thoroughly collapsed hours ago once she got home from the city, every muscle in her body paralyzed and her mind spinning in confusion. 

She needs to place a call. Of this, she is certain. The conversation that is about to happen is not fit for 140 characters or less. She owes him at least that much— hell, she owes it to herself, too. Because as she was crouching on the cold tile of the bathroom floor yesterday, incredulous at the modern-day talisman in her hand that unleashed its shock and awe upon her senses, all she wanted was to hear his voice. It wasn’t the first time this yearning has consumed her in this house, all by herself in a way she never should have been, but up until that moment she hadn’t allowed herself to fully give into the heartache. Now she can do nothing but.

And when she was sitting in the office this morning, pretending it was just another appointment, she wished he were next to her holding her hand, cutting the tension with his own nervous-tick babbling, the threat of him about to inadvertently offend every person in this building a welcome distraction from the more-pressing worries bubbling inside her. She’d growl at him to cut it out, and all it would take was for him to notice the fear behind her snap to change his tune. In a flash, his tone would soften, and he’d look at her so piercingly she could swear he was reading her mind. 

“It’s going to be okay, you know.”

“How would you know?”

“Because you’ve got me.”

She wouldn’t be able to hide the reluctant smile escaping her mouth. His words were always like a tonic.

“And together, you and I have basically saved the world a dozen times over. _This_? It’s gonna be a piece of cake.”

“We do not even know what _this_ is yet. It could be a false bell—“

“—False alarm,”

“—Or it could mean something even worse.”

“It isn’t. And it won’t.”

“I just— I don’t want to get my hopes up yet. Not until we know for sure.”

He’d grin.

“ _What_.”

“So your hopes are up, huh?”

She’d playfully smack his arm. 

“Do not start this again. You know what I mean.”

And so their bickering would continue until the woman in the white coat returned and settled the score for them.

Instead, she is alone in a misery of her own making. Now she’s about to drag him back into hers. She doesn’t realize that he’s just as miserable without her by his side, still convinced this was the only way to protect both of their hearts, despite feeling like she’s broken each of theirs to smithereens. In the fog of the last day, the reasons for her seclusion elude her, yet she can’t bring herself to bridge that final gap.

So this is how she finds herself still slumped over as daylight hastily makes it escape from the old house and twilight begins to invade the skyline. There is a gentle breeze enveloping her, as though the wind were urging her to make her move. 

However, the more the screen flashes on the table in front of her, messages unreturned and concerns ignored, the more the mounting fear takes over, and the very idea of holding the device sends her into a state of panic. It’s easy to forget the rest of the world here, in her private refuge, but she is aware that the second she reaches for the phone, her retreat is effectively over.

Nonetheless, a lifetime of training begins to take over, and she tells herself that this is stupid— if she can take out a flotilla of monsters on a daily basis without breaking a sweat, she can be an adult and speak into a phone. Granted, it will probably be the most difficult conversation she’s ever had in her life, but she can’t outrun this forever. Time is very much of the essence. In fact, she’s never had a deadline quite like this one.

She gives her head a shake and finally picks up the offending contraption. Despite all of her experience, this is one bomb she isn’t sure she can diffuse. Finally, she finds his name through the scroll, and she wills herself to press the device. It lights up, and her mind races through how she will get the words out. _Oh hey, I know I crushed your soul a few weeks ago, but funny story, I’m pregnant. How is the weather?_

She sniggers to herself and nearly cracks the glass as she rushes to hit the red button to end this madness before it’s too late, her resolve vanishing into thin air. The wind is knocked out of her, and as she throws the phone back onto the table, she folds her head into her hands and takes in deep breaths to calm the growing dread. 

Suddenly, she’s angry at herself, again, because it shouldn’t be this hard. He knows her better than anyone else — better than she knows herself these days — and it isn’t his fault that he isn’t with her right now. She should be a bigger person, but then she supposes that this is exactly why she _is_ here. Because she has never been the strong one, and it’s only a matter of time before the rest of the world finally catches on. She is sure _he_ will, soon enough.

She’s back to where she started, then. Swallowed whole by the weathered felt of the chair and the weight of a lifetime of choices seemingly coalescing into this very moment. The blinking light ahead of her taunts her, a reminder of what needs to be done and the courage she lacks, but she is exhausted on all fronts and has zero energy to handle this tonight.

She tells herself that it’s just the shock, and that she’ll be better in the morning after she’s gotten some sleep. Tomorrow, she will be brave. Tomorrow, she will find the words. Tomorrow, she will make that call. Tomorrow, she will be able to handle this and they will work this out.

 _Tomorrow_.


	4. iv. Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We need to talk. I’m coming over.”
> 
> The first time she hears this, it’s about six months into her move back to her childhood home. She tells herself she’s made a relatively safe hideaway here in the countryside, where she can remain a hermit as much as she desires. And desire this she does, since she wants nothing more than to seclude herself completely, keeping the outside world at bay for as long as the universe will allow.

“We need to talk. I’m coming over.”

These are words one rarely especially wants to be greeted with when they pick up a phone. 

For Ziva David, hearing them from the mouth of Orli Elbaz is even less welcome.

The first time she hears this, it’s about six months into her move back to her childhood home. She tells herself she’s made a relatively safe hideaway here in the countryside, where she can remain a hermit as much as she desires. And desire this she does, since she wants nothing more than to seclude herself completely, keeping the outside world at bay for as long as the universe will allow.

It seems as though her streak is about to run out.

“Well, I see congratulations are in order,” the elder woman announces as she walks through the door, at which the younger shoots her a look indicating just where those wishes may be directed. 

“What? In spite of what some around here may tell you, there is no shame in a woman having a child on her own. I think it is admirable that you are doing this for yourself.”

“It is not like that at all. It is… _complicated_.” She surprises herself at how thoroughly American she sounds, and another pang hits her chest at the thought of what she’s left behind. 

“I see. Well since you are already so familiar with complications, that brings me to the reason for my visit. There has been chatter.”

This raises the hair on the back of her neck, and her immediate response is not a pleasant one. “I do not want to hear it. _Chatter_ is no longer a part of my life. I am of no help to you on this.” 

She thinks she’s made her point clear enough, but her father’s one-time protégé persists. “Yes, I heard you had retired, and I am terribly sorry to impose on you like this. But I am afraid this is a matter on which you have a unique expertise, and your help would be invaluable to our intelligence officers.”

The conversation is terse, but the former agent also cannot prevent her investigative instincts from bubbling to the surface in spite of herself. If Orli is right about one thing, it’s that she has a particularly intimate familiarity with the case, between her connection to her father and her work overseas, so she supposes it isn’t fair to keep that knowledge locked up just because she’d rather be left alone.

Thus begins the next chapter of an already contentious relationship.

It’s not that the woman returns to active duty in one fell swoop; instead, her quasi-reinstatement happens in bits and pieces and fits and starts. The next time Orli pays a visit, the baby is ten weeks old. Ziva is surprised that the call is more social than business. (To be honest, so is the Director.) 

“I know it must be difficult all by yourself with the little one,” she offers as an explanation. “I thought maybe a little distraction could help ease your mind for a while.”

The new mother admits that, yes, as much as she enjoys being cocooned with her daughter ( _her daughter_ ) out here, where it feels as though nothing can touch them, she hadn’t been counting on just how isolating it would be, too. (There is an easy solution to that, except that it isn’t easy at all. It has terrified her right into an impasse on a daily basis for the last year.) Thus she grabs the folder and harnesses her attention towards it, so that she doesn’t have to think about _why_ she’s so lonely and how simply she could have changed that, before it was too late. The clues are like a puzzle, and though she refuses to commit to this as actual work, she also can’t deny the thrill it gives her to feel useful, in a way completely separate from attending to her child.

So it goes for the next year. Orli’s visits come in closer intervals, and Ziva resists the nature of these calls less and less. There is always tea ready for her arrival, and the baby takes to their companion with guileless gusto, the same way she seems to with every person they meet. ( _Just like him_ , she remembers with a twinge.) She still refuses to admit that these consultations are in any way, shape or form _professional_ , and because she rarely even needs to leave the house to do so, she deludes herself into believing she’s merely helping an old colleague of her father’s. A colleague who has proven to be surprisingly empathetic to a single mother caught in a maelstrom of her own making.

Only once does their initial introduction ever get referenced.

“He would be so proud of you. He would dote on her.”

“ _Don’t._ ”

That is the first and last time they ever speak of Eli. 

Yet, the longer these meetings go on, the less the woman resents her visitor. Where at one time she blamed her for everything that had gone wrong in her past — _if only she hadn’t met her father, if only they hadn’t been so weak, if only her mother’s heart hadn’t been broken, if only if only if only_ — with time comes a certain perspective. Orli may be many things, opportunistic certainly among them, but she understands that some things are inevitable. That if it hadn’t been Orli, it would have been another young officer under her father’s wing, and that she was surely neither the first nor last. She was just the straw that broke the camel’s back. Given that the central players in this melodrama have long since departed this Earth, holding onto that anger seems fruitless given their current circumstances. It is a symbiotic relationship, now. One gets the intel she needs, the other gets a lifeline to a world she is only now able to admit she misses.

(She may have given up the badge, but it hasn’t given up on her.)

Between glances at surveillance photos and headshots and coded messages, they speak of other things — alarmingly normal things, like the weather and politics and Tali’s milestones— and if Ziva didn’t know any better, she’d almost believe that they were becoming friends. It boggles her mind, but she supposes turning to her father’s former mistress as a confidante is not the craziest thing that has ever happened to her. 

Until everything changes, again.

“We need to talk. I’m coming over.”

There’s an urgency in Orli’s voice on the other end of the receiver that she hasn’t heard in a long time, but she brushes it off as the stress of heading one of the world’s most intricate intelligence agencies. That is until she finally shows up on her doorstep, skipping all formalities and projecting the air of a woman on a mission.

“There has been more chatter. New chatter. _Worrisome_ chatter.”

This will not be good. 

“We have reason to believe there is a credible threat against you right now.”

Once again, the blood rushes through her ears, and her vision temporarily tunnels. 

_This_ — This is exactly what she was running away from to begin with. Only now it’s not just her own life she has to worry about, but her daughter’s, too. More than just fear, she feels white-hot anger.

“I told you from the beginning that I wanted no part of this. You knew I wanted to keep my family safe. _You knew_.”

“Yet you never turned me away either, Ziva.”

Check and mate.

“So what do we do now?”

Words are exchanged. Barbs, too. This is all too familiar to both of them.

“We have a safe house. I’ve already arranged for protective detail—“

“ _No_.”

“Excuse me?”

“That will not stop them and you know it.”

“With all due respect—“

“No. We both know what we are up against. I have seen how Kort works. We will not be safe here. Anywhere.”

“So then what do you suggest?”

She hesitates. She knows what must be done. What should have always been done. 

“We have to go.”

“Ziva, you honestly believe you can get out of the country _with a toddler_ undetected? Be reasonable.”

She stills her movements, and watches the girl in question in the corner of the living room, happily building castles with her blocks only to gleefully destroy them and rebuild over and over again. All she ever wanted was for the child to hold onto that innocence, but instead they’re about to confront the beast head-on. 

(Why was it she ran away here, again?)

“So then I disappear as planned. But Tali must leave, immediately. As long as she is with her father, she will be okay.”

“Ziva, are you sure—“

The look she gives in return dares her to contradict her. This is non-negotiable.

“He has never met her. Hell, he does not even know she exists, I take it.”

A guilty stare at the floor.

“So is this really the best course of action?”

No, the best course of action would be to rewind two years. To listen to her heart. To beg him not to leave. To ask him to stay forever. To follow him back home. To be by his side every step of the way and build their family together. To pick up the damn phone.

But this is exactly why she has to do this now.

She answers by heading to the baby’s room, furiously grabbing clothing and toys _and her birth certificate and passport can’t forget those_ and packing them into her duffel bag. She subdues the rising fear by pretending this is a weekend trip, in order to best anticipate what will calm her daughter ( _her daughter her daughter she’s leaving her daughter_ ) in the coming days. This is no time to panic; she owes Tali that much. Her world ( _and his_ ) is about to be turned upside down for who knows how long, and all she can do is to surround her daughter with as much love in her absence as is physically possible.

As she pulls pajamas out of drawers, she stops dead in her tracks when she spots the frame on top of the dresser. She picks it up and dances her fingers across the glass, willing the memory back to life to try to hold onto that brief happiness for all time. Suddenly, before she has time to change her mind, she stuffs the picture into the bag’s side pocket. Impractical, yes, but she hopes that somehow the child will recognize its significance, the familiarity of the two players bridging the gap from her old world to the new. That maybe it will send another kind of message to _him_ , too. _This is who we are_.

She returns to the living room, dropping the bag onto the floor and collapsing onto the couch, though she knows she’s running out of time. That’s a recurring theme in her life, she realizes, but it is of no use to ponder this right now.

Then she reaches for the phone on the table and begins her search.

“What are you doing?”

“I need to tell him. I cannot just send Tali away before he finds out—”

“Ziva, you know you cannot do that now. They will trace you in an instant. It is too late.”

(Unsaid: _You’ve had two years to do this. This is your own fault_.)

She glowers at Orli from her vantage point, despite the fact that the woman holds the higher ground, but she hates to admit that she also is right. Time is in fact up.

Another sigh of exasperation. Of desperation.

 _Fine_.

“Make the call.”

And with that, Fate yet again plays its hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, let me reiterate that I wrote this nearly two years ago before... _recent developments_. (Guess it's about time...)


	5. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He refuses to admit he is losing hope, not in so many words, but his exhaustion is deep-set, and there is only so much of the unsaid he can stand before he wants to scream into the void.

It’s the first glimmer of hope he’s had in months. 

( _Years_ , he corrects himself.)

He’s denied. He’s bargained. He’s raged.

He’s mourned. Over and over and over and over, every second of every day, he’s mourned. 

But never accepted. 

Oh, he knows that he should, that he needs to. With every sorrowful stare from a well-intentioned acquaintance. With every cautionary _Junior_ his father utters. With every plaintive cry from his daughter’s impressive lungs, which are mercifully decreasing in frequency, but that in itself brings its own kind of grief.

Because it means they’re getting used to this.

And he never wants to get used to _this_.

It is week three into their pilgrimage to her homeland (their _family’s_ homeland), and his initial resolve has slowly dissipated, as the reality of closed doors and party lines replaces his flat-out refusal to acknowledge this turn of events. He concludes that there is more to this story. ( _Rule three_.)

So when he’s not pounding his fists and chasing leads down back alleys (ah, just like old times), he seeks answers of other sorts. Which is how he finally meets Ziva’s aunts face-to-face, and they are just as forceful — and bewildering — as he’d once guessed. 

Once they lay their eyes on Tali, the world stops for a moment. Rapid-fire terms of endearment he can only begin to decipher emit from all corners of the room, the smiles on the women matched only by the grin on the object of their affection. It’s a tangled mess of hugs and kisses, and yet again he feels _it_. That pang that reminds them that these strangers (to him) understand his daughter better than he does, watched her grow and took part in raising her — more than he could claim at the moment. As far as she is aware, _they_ are her family. He is just an often-amusing, occasionally-grumpy interloper in her life.

But he shakes this off. _Modeling happiness_ , as Palmer would say. Or, in other words, _fake it ‘til you make it_. And he is determined to make it. However he came to it, he is her father, and he is damned sure he is going to make up for lost time.

He watches this scene before him as though he were just an audience member, the fatigue setting in more than he’d like to admit and he’s just _so tired_ , always. He doesn’t want to intrude on this reunion, but one of the women — Nettie, the one he accidentally threatened to maim once upon a time — sidles up next to him on his perch in the corner, directing her piercing gaze upon him not unlike that other one he knows so well. He isn’t sure what to expect, but then she takes his hand between both of hers, looking right into his eyes, and for the moment, it’s all either of them needs. 

It is not long after this — a few days, a week maybe, he can’t remember — when he is sitting in a cafe back in the city, taking a break after a morning filled with closed doors and senseless doublespeak, that he feels the familiar buzzing in his back pocket, which he ignores in favor of catching his breath and his thoughts in the midday sun. He is so used to either the barrage of texts from friends back home desperately trying to keep him apprised of their lives without him in it, or conversely the dead-end leads from his contacts on this side of the pond, that he’s become accustomed to the device withholding anything of import. It seems like today is no different.

He sips his latte and soaks in the ridiculousness of his current endeavor, but finally gets bored enough that he grabs his phone to waste some more time before he spins in more circles. As he races through the notifications on his screen, deciding to answer them later when he truly has given up for the day, one catches his eye, because it is distinctly not like the others. 

_020916GVA1300F61_.

He assumes, at first, that this must be some sort of spam message, its gibberish contents as indecipherable as the unlisted number that sent it. He’s done this more often than he can count, and he quickly dismisses the alert to resume his mindless scrolling, until he leaves his table and presses forward on his search. 

Ten days and another flight later, he is pushing Tali in her stroller along the banks of the Seine, relishing in the opportunity to reconnect with his past ( _their past_ ) and create a different reality for himself. He refuses to admit he is losing hope, not in so many words, but his exhaustion is deep-set, and there is only so much of the unsaid he can stand before he wants to scream into the void. He is certain that every single person he comes into contact with is hiding something, which may be unhealthy, yet it’s becoming clearer that he needs to take a different tack in this particular case.

( _No body, no murder_. Funny how no one seems to be bringing up that rule these days.)

The incidence of his phone chirping has plummeted, which he supposes is a sign that they are adjusting to their new normal, but it is still his lifeline to his home (former home) and his duty. He is nonetheless responsible for the most treasured of charges, thus he forces himself to be present for her. They are still acclimating to their newfound living arrangements, the crying not abating in prevalence but rather increasing in intensity; Nettie assures him that this is a good sign, because it means the child is beginning to trust him enough to unleash her full fury on him. Apparently this is progress.

This day, however, they are both uncharacteristically serene, and his melancholy at the memories of the last time he was here are kept at bay only by his reliving of the tale for his daughter. (After all, _she_ led them here, in her own way. A picture says a thousand words.) He hopes that he can share this all with Tali, imbue her with the spirit of what this meant to _them_ and how this is one chapter in their book, but he supposes they will have years to get into that fine detail. Maybe for today, watching the ducks waddle along the grass is enough. 

When the girl gets restless, he parks himself on a nearby bench and unshackles her from her aerodynamically-designed prison, so she can run free for a while and play with her fellow pint-sized hellions in the park. The women-to-men ratio in the playground would unmistakably swing in his favor, but those days are long, long gone for him. He chuckles at how quickly his M.O. has shifted in even these subtlest of ways, but he doesn’t miss that life even a little bit.

Like every other parent dutifully keeping an eye on their children, he checks his phone, expecting the same quick updates from his friends or rejected responses from his sources, when he spies a familiar notice in his inbox.

 _020916GVA1300F61_.

Another untraceable number, another incomprehensible string of characters sets his alarm bells ringing. This is no longer a coincidence, but he doesn’t have the faintest clue at what it could mean.

It is _something_ , though, and that’s more than he’s had for ages.

Typically, he gets no help on these matters from his usual suspects here, so he texts the code to Abby back home in the hopes that it turns up some sort of serial number or case file or _anything_ he can use, but she comes up empty. He is undeterred, for his spidey senses are tingling and he feels it in his bones that this message is significant. He is being watched — figuratively, literally, metaphysically, he can’t tell — and he _knows_ this to be true as much as he knows that his daughter now really, really hates green peas.

More days turn into nights which turn into weeks, and he continues his campaign. While in the past he’d bounce around the continent following the faintest of evidence without a second thought, he now has some precious cargo to contend with, and realizes his mission will need to be much more efficient and tactful. So he manages his op from his temporary home base in the city of lights, and he’s never been so grateful for a visit from his father when he shows up with the summer breeze, just to give himself a little reprieve in the middle of this chaos.

The elder statesman happily obliges — though, to be honest, neither of them are in prime shape to keep up with a rambunctious two year old — and takes on this role with aplomb. But Tony can sense his father’s judgment through the crinkled eyes, if only out of pity, and he’s even more determined to prove his point.

“Junior,” comes the familiar baritone, “are you sure you should be doing this? Don’t you think it may be a better idea to get your bearings and settle into your new routine? Spend more time with Tali?”

“She _is_ the reason I’m doing this, Dad.”

That last admission tugs at his heart, because it’s a dichotomy that’s weighed on him since _that_ night. He wants to be everything to her, always, but the reason she came to him is why he can never stop this, not until he finds out what really happened. The charred rubble of the homestead and the secrets it unearthed only convinced him further that other forces were at work. They just neglected to provide him with the decoder ring.

The season marches on, and out of the blue one August afternoon, the Director herself pays him a visit. 

“I was in town on business and I wanted to see how you two were holding up.”

“We’re great, thanks. You’ve strung me along so stupendously that I’m practically a marionnette, Orli.”

Her eyes narrow, and he knows he’s struck a nerve, but that is exactly the point.

“I am glad to see you adjusting to your new role, Tony. Fatherhood suits you.”

He is unfazed. For her part, Tali continues to merrily chatter away to her growing collection of stuffed animals, oblivious to their guest. (Time marches on, and in the evolutionary timeline of a toddler, months are enough to wipe out a life’s worth of memories. It pains him to think of who else she may have forgotten by now.) Frankly, he is sick of the steady stream of obscure statements, and he’d just as soon send his onetime adversary on her way, but he senses that she did not make this side trip for idle chitchat. 

“You know, fall will be here sooner than you realize. It may be worth a trip to Amsterdam before the weather turns.” 

She notes his flummoxed state. 

“I really must get going, I have a meeting I cannot miss.” She approaches the former agent and kisses him once on each cheek like an old friend, which confuses him until he notices she’s slipped a note in his shirt pocket. “Take care of yourself and your family, Tony.”

Once she’s out the door, he unfolds the paper to find an address he (obviously) doesn’t recognize scribbled across it. Every cell in his body pulses, because this confirms his hunch, and all is not what it appears to be, even if he doesn’t quite grasp what the deal is. What he does glean, though, is that he has to get himself on a flight out of Paris as soon as possible.

So he recalls his father again from across the pond ( _“Oh, Son, you know I would do anything for you and Tali, but are you sure—“ “Dad, I just need to do this, okay?”_ ), and by midweek he’s walking along the canals in the Dutch capital until he reaches an unobtrusive door in a nondescript building wedged between boutiques on a busy road. While his first few rings seem to go unanswered, he considers whether using muscle would be appropriate, until a bespectacled man of shorter-than-average stature opens the door and nods at him to follow suit.

In the backroom of what is clearly not actually a residence, their conversation is quick, as his host hands over a small envelope and little else. “When the agency found out that Kort was active again, they surmised that he was digging through Director David’s personal affairs in search of… _leverage_ … due to his personal connection with his family members.” The investigator pours the contents onto the counter in front of them. “These were some of the few items remaining in this particular location.”

The gems before him remind him of another case long ago, in another European hub, and pieces of this puzzle begin to click into place, though he isn’t sure exactly what he’s being told here, so his guest obliges. “These are from a jeweler in Milan. He was a particular favorite of the Director’s.”

“Are you telling me I came here just for you to tell me I gotta go all the way to Milan?”

Crickets.

“Okay, you’re telling me I need to go to Milan. Got it.”

With that he’s off on what feels like the thousandth flight of the year to Italy, momentarily considering that he’s running a fool’s errand, but equally convinced that he has no other option at this point. He can go home (which isn’t home) and raise his daughter and live with this suffocating anguish for the rest of his life, or he can follow his Arthurian quest and at the very least get some answers to what happened last spring at the farmhouse. 

Hours later, the ground barely moves beneath his feet as he wills himself to what is almost assuredly another safe house. As he comes upon the small shop, he can’t help but think that in another universe, this would be an utterly charming getaway, strolling the streets hand-in-hand and people-watching over espressos and shared laughs. But he can’t go there, not now, when so much is on the line.

He briefly mulls breaking out his rudimentary Italian for the clerk behind the till, but the man reacts first and immediately picks him out as an American. 

“What can I do for you, signore?”

“Hi there, I’m looking for a little help. I recently inherited some pieces from a family member’s estate, and I was told they came from your store. I was wondering if you could help me appraise them?”

The mustachioed man zeroes in his gaze through his coke-bottle glasses (always the glasses with these guys) from the collection of jewels up to his newest client, and he springs into action.

“Of course, if you’ll just follow me to the office. Stefano, watch the floor.” Stefano nods and seems to grow about three feet. Tony suspects Stefano too is more than just an impossibly-chiseled face in a bespoke suit. They step into a small room off the hallway, after which his guide (allegedly named Giovanni, but they both know better) locks the door behind them, and suddenly the space becomes the fortress of solitude.

He opens a closet door to reveal a vault, and with the push of a few buttons and the beeps of confirmation, he returns with a smaller safe, in which stacks of folders reside. “As you may be aware, Eli amassed alternative forms of insurance policies over the years as a way of ensuring his family’s safety should the need arise.”

“Yeah, diamonds, I’ve been through this before.”

“Shortly before his death, he began to liquidate some of these assets, with the proceeds directed to several Swiss bank accounts. This allowed him capital to invest in other holdings.”

“Wire transfers, really? I’m here to look at the David family bank statements?”

“I do not know why you are here, Mr. DiNozzo.” (Lies.) “But you can take all the time you need to sift through the documents. If you’ll excuse me, I have customers to attend to out front.”

With that, his source leaves him alone in his confusion in his very own panic room. To say he is frustrated is an understatement, but after releasing those sentiments upon the desk for a moment, he regroups. Everyone involved in this web is unnecessarily obfuscatory, he decides, but he is also positive that they wouldn’t have sent him here if it weren’t important. So he does what he’s done best for over two decades, he puts his nose to the grindstone and starts reading over the files, hoping something, anything will sing to him and put him out of his misery.

It feels like hours pass by and the slew of numbers and transfers and travel records all begin to coalesce into one big ball of nothing in his brain. He shuns it for a minute as he buries his face in his hands. He slumps in the armchair, just shy of defeated, and stares into space, a million thoughts running through his head and none particularly helpful at this juncture. It is while he is dozing, then, that he lands on one of the scattered statements and his eyes are drawn to one particular line— _Banque cantonale de Genève_ — and suddenly all cylinders begin to fire up all over again. 

_Geneva_.

He quickly ruffles through the sheets of paper strewn across the desk and lands on a set of travel itineraries from past meetings, and he finds his smoking gun. 

_GVA_.

The answer seems so simple, he can’t believe he never figured it out.

He grabs his phone and frantically pulls up his messages, as though he didn’t have this particular one seared into his memory.

 _020916GVA1300F61_.

Of course he was sent an itinerary, albeit in hieroglyphics.

He got his magic decoder ring after all.

He can’t believe how monumentally stupid he’s been all this time. How the answer has been under his nose, how a little more frigging Googling could have blown this wide open and saved him a lot of frequent flyer miles.

It seems too good to be true, but he’s as sure as anything that this is right.

 _September 2nd 2016. Geneva. 1300 hours. Gate F61_.

And wouldn’t you know it, that happens to be _tomorrow_.

There is no one there to confirm his theory, but the point is moot, anyhow. He could be walking right into a trap, or into nothing at all, but his gut is telling them the answers he seeks, in whatever form they may take, are waiting for him in that terminal. He isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry or yell, but it’s a date he intends to keep.

It takes everything in him not to race out of the shop and catch the first cab back to the airport, but he realizes that he’s got almost twenty-four hours until his rendezvous and he is bone-tired, so he instead checks in to a moderately-priced hotel for the night to catch up on some sleep, a luxury he never thought he’d ever encounter again since the day that effectively blew up his life. A quick call back home assuages his spirit in small measure (though Tali doesn’t understand the concept of FaceTime whatsoever), but to be honest a hot shower and collapsing into the king-sized bed by himself soothes it even more.

It is the first full night’s sleep he’s had in four months.

He catches an early morning shuttle to Geneva, and the flight is barely airborne before it touches down. (One day, he will drive through the Alps and relive the greatest of James Bond fantasies, but he is such a bundle of energy that this trip is decidedly not the time nor place for such whimsy.) He reminds himself that he doesn’t even comprehend what he’s looking for when he steps off the plane, so he needs to get a grip. He needs to be alert. 

He needs to make it through this day.

It is several hours until his appointment, which calls for his old airport standbys of gossip rags and sugary substances to pry his eyes open. However, the stress of the upcoming _whatever_ frays his psyche at its edges, and he reads the same sentence over and over again as the numbers change over on the digital clock ahead. He is parked in a plastic seat by gate F61, keenly observing his surroundings while he mentally runs through everything he’s learned so far and what it could all mean. _Which could be absolutely nothing_ , he repeats to himself, because hope is a dangerous thing in his experience.

The early buzz of commuters and tourists eases into a lull by midmorning, but still, he is anxious. He tries to prepare for all scenarios — that Orli meets him, that another stranger in glasses offers another cryptic clue with little resolution, that he ends up being the next victim on _Punk’d_ , anything that might pass the time and ease his worries. Surely he must be quite the sight for the staff who cross paths with him, the slightly disheveled American with no particular place to be and no intention of leaving his erstwhile nest in the near future, and he wouldn’t be surprised if calls are made to security regarding his strange behavior. Today though, whatever this is, he’ll power through it on nothing but a wing (or two) and a prayer.

The waiting area begins to fill as passengers arrive to set off to their destinations, and he zones out into distraction behind the magazine covers as the lunch hour draws nearer. The minutes roll by one by one, each bringing him closer to his own clandestine meeting, but there are no signs of any unusual activity that he can discern. Every once in awhile he thinks he glimpses a man scrutinizing him, or a woman offering him a knowing glance, but they too eventually board their flights and he is left to his own devices in his self-made bunker. 

He gets nervous as his appointment draws nearer and still no sign of whatever it is he is waiting for, and for a moment he begins to doubt the intention of this mission. Maybe he misread the signs. Maybe this isn’t at all what this all meant. Maybe Orli is sending him on a wild goose chase because he really is that big of a pain in the ass. Maybe he ought to accept the truth as he sees it and learn to live with this immovable grief.

So caught up in his emotional spin cycle is he that he barely registers the racket around him as travelers gather around the gate on their way to their next adventure. It isn’t until the recorded announcement on the loudspeaker above him sounds off that he awakes from his reverie  
.  
_“Le vol Air France 1743 à destination de Paris-Charles De Gaulle embarquera de la porte F61.”_

He does a double-take at the flight destination, and now he’s confident that something is afoot. There’s a hubbub in front of him as everyone rushes to be first at the gate, despite the fact that they are obviously _not_ all seated in the rows which will be called, but suddenly the crowd parts, and he is unprepared for what he sees before him. 

He blinks.

_Hard._

They catch each other’s eyes across the throngs of people, both holding in a breath like they are steadying themselves for the shot.

As though in a dream, he rises to his feet and somehow saunters closer to his target.

His target is planted firmly into the linoleum below.

Finally, they are separated by a mere three feet, painfully close but never so far apart.

Neither makes a sound for ages, but the stalemate ends at last.

“Hi,” she offers meekly, unsure of herself or him.

“Hi,” he responds, patently insufficient, but his faculties fail him in this instant.

There is an awkward beat between them. She bites her lip. He bores his gaze into her skull. They are both shaking.

“Tony, I’m—“

“ _Alive_?” He snorts, rougher than he’d intended, but he’s operating on pure emotion and is not in control of any bit of it.

Her eyes begin to well up, though he _knows_ she’s fighting every last second of it. She is so predictable, even when she’s supposed to be dead.

“I cannot— Tony, I am so, _so_ sorry. I wish—“

“ _Stop_.”

She jumps in her skin. She accepts that she deserves whatever is coming next, but there is three years’ worth of regret begging to burst out of her soul, and she will spend a lifetime atoning for every one of those sins. She is preparing for the onslaught she knows will overcome her (should overcome her) now that they stand before each other.

But all he does is stare. She wants to reply, but she cannot fathom how she will bridge that gap. So, like she has every night since they parted, she does nothing.

“ _Ziva_ ,” He sighs, and a weight lifts off his tense shoulders. Tears are now definitely falling down her cheeks in spite of herself, and her pursed lips quiver at the sound, still like music to her ears even when she’s sure he’s going to wash his hands of her forever.

Except he doesn’t, and instead this is what ultimately ends their standoff, because he takes two steps towards her, and she in turn gingerly inches towards him, so close that the familiar rush between them floods every one of their senses like it always used to.

He studies her, and she offers a weak smile in return, despite the fact that she feels as though she’s a second away from a meltdown. But the grin with which he answers her makes her weak in the knees, and that is the final signal he needs to close the divide between them once and for all. He cups her face in his hands and before she knows it, their lips meet for a gentle reunion. Her arms wrap around his waist and they are fully entwined, like they should always have been. 

This is not happily ever after. There will be more tears and rage and despair, and they are not fixed, not by a long shot.

But this is _home_.

After what feels like an eternity in more ways than one, they break apart, though still holding on to each other as though their lives depended on it. (In fact, they do, he can guarantee that one.) 

“Well, sweet cheeks, looks like we’ve got a plane to catch.”

This time they write their own story. 

And this time, they will have their Paris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that I couldn't write for almost two years. I really didn't expect it to turn into... _this_.


	6. Timeless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleep is a cruel mistress, indeed.

Sleeping in is not a luxury they are often afforded. 

_She_ — she has always been a morning person. At least this is what she tells herself. The truth is that she has never known anything but an early sunrise wakeup call, not in her household. _Sleeping the day away is dangerous_ , her father once told her. _You never know who will rush in to take your place_. As a child, she took this warning to heart, wary of the unseeable monsters looming at twilight ready to snatch her away. 

He is a little more slovenly. Once upon a time, he was known to sneak home in the first light of dawn (where a lifetime away, she would be just getting up), only to spend the entire day in bed until the late afternoon rays summoned him back up to lather, rinse, repeat. Eventually, adulthood trained that out of him, yet without the routine of four a.m. wakeup calls from work rousing him from his dream state, he finds these short nights painful.

Which is why he is particularly annoyed with his current sleepless state. But the stirring beside him reminds him that misery does love company.

“You asleep?”

An exasperated sigh.

“No. Are you?”

“ _No_.” This sounds rather like the wail of a siren instead of the response of a functional human being.

He can feel her rolling her eyes at his screeching, even when they have their backs to each other.

“What time is it, anyway?” He doesn’t really want to know, the dark shadows cast through the blinds telling him enough as it is.

“Well, the kids are not even awake yet, so what does that tell you?”

He muffles a whine into his pillow, which is not at all dignified for a grown man, but he doesn’t care. This is supposed to be their day off, _dammit_ , and he is self-aware enough to admit that he’s now jealous of a couple of miniature Rip van Winkles down the hall who will get to enjoy their peaceful slumber and wake up well-rested and rejuvenated. Unlike their parents, who are likely to be mainlining double-strong coffee just to make it to lunch. 

Sleep is a cruel mistress, indeed.

“This is totally unfair, you know.”

“ _The worst_.”

“I’ve been dreaming of this night for days.”

“ _Weeks_.”

“When was the last time we actually had a morning to ourselves?”

“Was it that time your dad took them to the zoo?”

“Yeah but that doesn’t count, you had that deadline and I had the flu and I’m pretty sure I was seeing the ghost of Jimi Hendrix in the bathroom at some point…”

“Well, there is that.” Another sigh.

“Insomnia is a bitch. It should be outlawed. Why hasn’t it been eradicated yet? Like— like smallpox, or the plague!”

“Didn’t you have the plague once?”

“Yeah.” That only seems to prove his point about the injustice of their current state. 

Tick. Tock.

(They don’t have a mechanical clock here, but he’s pretty sure he can feel the digital numbers roll over on the display across the room. Or maybe it’s the sleep deprivation talking. It doesn’t matter. He can feel it, he knows it.)

He tosses and turns some more. She pulls the blankets up to her chin and hides her face under a stray pillow. Neither of them is getting anywhere. The faintest hint of daylight slowly trickles in. 

He lets out an especially dramatic breath.

“ _Tony!_ ” she scolds.

“It’s not my fault! I think the bed is lumpy.”

“The bed is _not_ lumpy.”

“I’m pretty sure it is.”

It’s her turn to fume. “You are a child, you know that?”

More silence. They are both staring at the ceiling now.

Suddenly, the starry sky peeking through the window changes hue, and it’s as though the energy in the room begins to shift. He is suddenly conscious of another sort of relief.

“You know,” he begins as he turns to face her, “the kids are asleep.”

“I _know_. I just said that—“

“No, I mean, _the kids are asleep_.”

The realization dawns on her. “Huh.”

He rests his hand on her hip as his fingers play a melody across her skin. “I can think of one way to start this morning off right…”

“Oh, can you, now?” She fakes sternness, but the soft chuckle that follows betrays her.

“You bet.” In one swift move, he raises one hip above hers and captures her mouth, feeling her lips curl into a smile as she returns the favor. Soon enough, she is under him completely, welcoming him home with every rise of her hips as she strains to match him. She curls one leg over his, as she snakes her arms around his neck, eagerly pulling him closer to her and letting the cadence lead them

Until another cruel twist of fate intervenes.

He doesn’t hear it at first, as he has a much more pleasant distraction in front of him, but soon the racket of the electronic chime interrupts his thoughts. 

“Ignore it,” she cautions breathlessly.

He is no dummy. He follows his orders dutifully. He is greatly rewarded. 

Until it rings once more.

“Probably your father,” she musters. “Brunch.” Between kisses. “Call back later.”

This seems like an excellent idea. 

At some point in this mission, remaining clothes are shed and he is back to his original target. The target voices her approval and he is grateful for their offspring’s newfound ability to sleep through the night. This restlessness is a tradeoff he will gladly accept.

That is, of course, until the blasted tone makes its too-cheery presence felt for a third time. He considers ignoring it yet again, but he slows his ministrations regardless. He knows the jig is up. He stills as he raises to his extended arms, his partner confused at his sudden ceasefire, and he has to catch his breath for a second before exhaling in frustration. 

He reaches over to the nightstand to grab the object of his ire, and when the name appears onscreen, it takes all he has not to scream into his pillow. Of all days…

“I swear to God, McGee, this better be good, or else so help me I’m about to slap you so hard from all the way across— _Boss?!_ ”

Her eyebrows crease in her puzzlement, mirroring the bewilderment in his. This is definitely not the way they expected this reverie to end.

Little do they know this is just the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cue NCIS _Pfffft_ * ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
